And I'd just SAID, "It's been a really long time since I've had a migraine." Why do I say things like that? But really. I usually run through my whole prescription in a month, usually to the day. But I'd gone almost TWO months with one prescription.
The rest of the weekend was okay, though. On Friday, Ned and I were supposed to go to this outdoor concert, and he came home early, and we decided a delightful nap would be in order before we left, and
there was the biggest thunder, and we went to the porch and it was raining sideways. So we ended up going to a fancy restaurant instead, where I had chicken, and I don't know why I'm so fucking boring. You know what my problem is? I want whatever dish has mashed potatoes on the side. I could get something fascinating and ask for mashed potatoes, but I never do.
Really, if I had my druthers, I'd just like a big plate of mashed potatoes, strawberries and avocado pieces. Those are all the things I'm really looking for in a meal.
On Saturday, one of the young girls at work asked us to come to this young bar to celebrate her young music magazine that she does. "You know we'll be the oldest people there by decades," said Ned, who usually doesn't care about that sort of thing.
We were, though. The bar was in the middle of one of the colleges, UNCG, which Ned said in high school they called UNCGay, which is mature and not at all like how boys in my high school called Flock of Seagulls Flock of Faggots. I wonder why it's hard for boys to come out in high school?
Is it easier now? I hope it is. Our whole culture sucked ass then. So to speak.
Anyway, the bar was technically a pizza place, and it was dark and rebellious in there and would have been exactly the kind of bar I'd have hung out in dramatically in college, hoping to look dark and rebellious with my blonde shoulder-length hair and tendency toward pink.
"Can we actually get pizza?" asked Ned, while I made eyes at college boys of color. "Do your eyes have to be popped out on coils the WHOLE time we're here?" asked Ned, until he saw a raven-haired girl wearing a cropped shirt.
Turns out we could get pizza, although I assure you pizza was not being marketed what you'd call heavily. Pasbt Blue Ribbon was. The menu had a little logo of a puffy-haired, mustached guy.
"Mr. Kotter left teaching and went into pizza-making," I observed. Ned laughed, because you have to humor me.
"You're the only person in here who'd get that joke," I noted.
Anyway, it turned out to be more fun than we'd thought, and the band was good, and I found myself wondering if they had songs on iTunes, and of course they don't have songs on iTunes, they're a college band, and when did I turn into everyone's grandma with my iTunes and my pizza?
I have to go to work and abort this mission, but remind me to tell you about the Pit Bull/Yorkie I met at the next bar, whom I fell very much in love with.
So technically, he was a Porkie. His mom was the Pit in that romantic entanglement, thank God. I wish I could have gotten a better picture but it was dark in there. Anyway there were all kinds of dogs in that bar, and it's not every day I fall for the littlest one, but he was super cool, and now I need a Porkie. This is a bar that's near our house and looked cool and we always said we should go in there, so we finally did. And it's a dog bar! All sorts of dogs sitting at the bar, ordering Salty Dogs and Milk Bones from big jars filled with pickle juice. On Saturdays it's Hot Poodles Half Price Drinks night.
Okay, I will talk at you later.
Here's me at home after, and Ned playing a record. A record. On his turntable. He does HAVE a turntable, but he wasn't really playing a record. I was just being a grandma again. Hold on. You've got something on your face. Let grandma lick her Kleenex and come at you...